The Hunt
by Max Alleyne
Summary: It just doesn’t seem possible that I, Michael Westen, renowned covert operative who has done work on six of the seven continents and speaks more than five languages, have been reduced to stalking through women’s shoe stores to find Christmas presents.


One thing that you will learn from working in covert ops is that international espionage doesn't stop for Christmas. It doesn't even slow down. If anything, it increases, because crowded shopping malls packed with holiday crowds make great places to arrange meetings. It makes it easy to fade into crowds and disappear if you think something is wrong, and since spies don't like to make a scene, you don't have to worry about getting shot. But every now and again, there are those operatives who just don't care. They don't care about being subtle, they don't care about being caught on camera, and they certainly don't care about killing you or any innocent bystanders.

Luckily, it's not a potential killer that I'm meeting, it's Fi, though it is very likely that she could try to kill me if I don't get her something for Christmas. But what do you get the woman who has everything? I've run over the list of things that Fi likes, and it's a damn short list—shoes and weapons. Since I'm not a woman or a gay man, I'm going to with weapons except that she has practically everything that she could want. C-4, throwing knives, sniper rifles, assault rifles, pistols, revolvers, a taser, pepper spray, a ceramic knife to get through metal detectors…she's got it all.

Which is why I'm standing in the middle of a crowded mall half an hour before it's supposed to close on Christmas Eve. I keep hoping that something is going to reach out a grab me—something that's not trying to kill me or ask me for help—and I'll just know that it's right for Fi. But so far, I've seen nothing, which is why I am standing in front of the last shoe store in the mall. I don't think I've ever looked at quite so many women's shoes before in my life—except for the one time I stepped into Fi's closet—and at this point, they're all starting to look the same.

I have no choice but to wade into the jungle of shoes and hope that I make it out alive. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two women arguing over a pair of shoes and immediately go into battle assessment mode. While one is a few inches taller than the other, the shorter woman appears to be in better shape and has a better fighting stance. The shoe is a crocodile patterned stiletto, an easily wielded weapon in the right hands. Yeah, my money is on the shorter one…

I force myself to stop watching the fight and pay more attention to the shoes. They're all wrong—they're either too dull for Fi, or they're similar to something she already has. It just doesn't seem possible that I, Michael Westen, renowned covert operative who has done work on six of the seven continents and speaks more than five languages, have been reduced to stalking through women's shoe stores to find Christmas presents. My phone starts buzzing in my pocket and I know it's Fi calling to tell me I'm late, but I'm not leaving this store without getting what I came for.

And then I see it. In the very back corner, jammed in between a bright red patent leather monstrosity and a dull brown thing that even my grandmother wouldn't wear, is the very thing I've been looking for. It's a black and white spat—sophisticated, but with a flirty edge. But what makes it perfect for Fi is the heel. The four-inch heel that happens to be a set of brass knuckles. Sophisticated, flirty, and dangerous. If Fi were a shoe, she would be this one. A multitude of the heavenly host didn't appear and start singing—which was surprising considering the miracle before me. I had the perfect Christmas present for Fi. I had accomplished the near-impossible.

"Yeah, Fi?" I said, answering the phone that had been persistently buzzing in my pocket.

"You're late. Everything alright?" she asked. Despite the question, there is no real concern in her voice. She knows that had I actually been in trouble, I would have called long before now.

"Yeah. I'll be there in a few minutes, assuming I don't get attacked by some over eager Christmas shoppers."

"Assuming you don't get attacked by Christmas shoppers? Are you losing your edge, Michael? Christmas shoppers were never a problem for you in Dublin."

"Neither were Christmas presents," I say under my breath. Apparently not quietly enough, though.

"Really, Michael? You're a spy—"

"Ex-spy," I correct her.

"—who has worked on six of the seven continents and speaks over five languages. You're telling me that you had trouble with Christmas shopping? Knowing how to play to people's wants is your job. Christmas presents shouldn't give you too much trouble," she said, her voice teasing.

"You know what? I'll see you in a few minutes." I can still hear her talking even as I hang up the phone, and I know that she's going to be teasing me about this for months, but I don't actually care. I'm actually spending Christmas with Fi this year. I'm not wondering where she is or how she's doing or whether or not she's still alive. I'm not worrying that Carla is going to have her killed in an attempt to recruit me. I'm not worrying that she's going to be taken back to Ireland to have God-knows-what done to her. This year, Fi is safe and spending Christmas with me.

She's waiting on the bench where we had agreed to meet, surrounded by a small sea of bags. Clearly, she's better at this whole Christmas shopping thing than I am. But I'm not surprised. After all, I hadn't actually had to do any shopping until I got back to Miami. Before that, I just sent Ma and Nate a card with a check in it. Simple, easy, and unable to give away my location—assuming I did it properly, which I always did.

"Only one bag? You really are terrible at this," Fi said by way of greeting.

"I only needed one more. I already got everything else."

"I see. And who's gift was giving you so much trouble?" she asked playfully. It's part of the game that we play. She already knows the answer, but wants me to tell her anyway. Because that's what she wants, naturally, I make her work for it.

"Who always gives me trouble?"

"Well, since I'm always a good girl and never get into trouble, it can't be me. You got your mother replacement curtains for those horrible things Strickler sent. You sent Nate money for his limo company. So, it must be Sam." Her eyes are glinting mischievously, and I'm pretty sure the same look is reflected on my face. Conversations with Fi are by far the most entertaining, stimulating parts of my day than any other.

"You guessed it." I can't keep the smile off my face, and she can't seem to either.

"So, what did you him?"

"Another shirt. That red one with the yellow flowers is getting a little worn. I wasn't sure if I should go with blue and green or orange and yellow."

"I see. And what did you get me?" she asked. She's biting her lip in a way that says, "if you don't tell me, I'm going to seduce it out of you." I don't take long deciding which route to go.

"I don't really remember…" She smiles, knowing that I'm going to continue the game. She picks up her bags and starts to walk towards the car, her hips swaying in a way that makes them completely noticeable. I can't help but stare, and she knows that I am. She throws all her bags in the back of the Charger and stops me from doing the same.

"You don't remember?"

"I got it a while back, so—"

She silences me with a kiss, and I let her. It's fierce and rough—like Fi. She's tugging at my lower lip with her teeth, and it's all I can do not to lay her across the hood of the car right there. Instead, I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight against me. Even after the kiss ends, we stand there for a few minutes, taking in the situation. Tactically speaking, standing like this in a parking lot is highly dangerous. There are tall rooftops all around and very little cover, making us prime targets for sniper activity. But at the moment, neither of us cares, because for the first time in a long time, we're spending Christmas with the people that truly matter. No other spies, no Christmas day assassinations. It's just us this Christmas, like is should be.

"It's a good present, I promise," I whisper. I can already imagine her expression when she opens the box.

"It better be," she says, pulling away and getting into the car. "If you got me another subscription to Guns & Ammo, I'm going to kick your ass."

* * *

**A/N:** So, there you have some fun BN fluff. I always imagine Michael having trouble with Christmas presents, despite his observation skills, just because he is so practical. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed and belated Merry Christmas.


End file.
